Midnight Star (29 page)

She drew a deep breath and dug her bare heels into Dolores’ side. The mare snorted and dashed forward. Chauncey kept her eyes forward, toward the narrow trail through the trees on the other side. She heard a woman shout. Suddenly she heard Cricket yelling at the top of her lungs. She whipped around and saw Tamba aiming a rifle at her. She threw herself forward on Dolores’ neck, but she was too late. She felt a searing pain in her shoulder and it slammed her into her mare’s neck. My God, she thought vaguely, that damned bitch shot me!

She heard a scream, and twisted her head back toward the camp. Cricket threw herself at Tamba as the rifle discharged again. The shot went wide, over Chauncey’s head.

She fell forward on Dolores’ neck, hanging on. Oddly enough, she felt no pain now, only a numbing coldness.

What now, Miss Brilliance? she asked herself.

Back toward Marysville, back toward the river.

Chauncey clung frantically to Dolores’ mane, letting her mare pick her own trail. The forest was thinning out, and she realized that Chatca would follow her.

She straightened and looked over her shoulder. Nothing. No one. She blinked. Her blouse was soaked with blood. She could feel it snaking down over her left breast. She pulled Dolores to a halt and ripped off a strip from her skirt. She made it into a pad and pressed it against the wound. Why doesn’t it hurt more? she wondered vaguely.

She click-clicked Dolores forward. She had to keep going. She knew she couldn’t hide her trail from Chatca. She didn’t know how to, and she was afraid that if she dismounted from her mare’s back, she wouldn’t have the strength to climb back on.

The river! Chatca couldn’t follow her if she kept in the water, could he? She guided Dolores into the shallows.

The sky darkened, and the air grew colder.

The hours passed and she forced herself to think about the mining camp she would ride into at any minute.

Suddenly the skies opened and rain poured down, cold rain, so thick she could scarcely see in front of her. No trail for Chatca to follow now, she thought, even if he’s a fish!

She was soaked and shivering in a matter of moments. The frigid piercing rain brought out
the pain in her shoulder, and she gritted her teeth. Dolores whinnied and shook her head.

Chauncey guided her out of the water to the riverbank. The overhanging tree branches afforded little protection from the lashing rain. Just a little farther, Chauncey said over and over.

Miners worked on the river. Where the devil were they?

Where was the woman who had exchanged the clothing for Chauncey’s boots?

She felt light-headed and closed her eyes. Raindrops splashed against her eyelids. She pressed her cheek against her mare’s neck. She thought of a warm fire, a thick blanket. She saw Delaney’s beloved face, filled with tenderness. Then she saw nothing.

It was the oddest feeling, and she didn’t understand it. Surely she couldn’t be moving! Chauncey forced herself to open her eyes. She was still astride Dolores’ broad back, her arms wrapped around the mare’s neck. She tried to pull herself upright, and gasped at the burning shaft of pain that tore through her shoulder. Dolores stopped suddenly in the midst of the tangled undergrowth, and Chauncey gritted her teeth against the jolting movement. “Please, Dolores, we must keep going. We must!” Her voice sounded rusty and hoarse with disuse. She realized that she could scarcely see. No, she wasn’t fainting again. It was growing dark. It was no longer raining, but the air felt heavy, pregnant with more moisture. She moaned softly. She knew with certainty that she would never survive if she had to spend the
night alone in the forest. She drew on her remaining strength and forced herself upright. She threw back her head and yelled, “Delaney!”

She heard birds chirping and some wings flapping. No human sounds.

“Delaney, where are you!”

She lurched forward at the sound of a rifle shot. Chatca!

“No,” she moaned softly. She tried to dig her heels into Dolores’ sides, but didn’t have the strength. Any moment, Chatca would burst through the trees. He would take her back. She would die.

She sobbed softly against her mare’s thick mane. Slowly she slid from her mare’s back onto the mossy earth. She lay on her back, staring up at the tall trees. Her mare whinnied. Chauncey heard boots crashing through the forest. She tried to rise. She wouldn’t let Chatca take her, she wouldn’t! But she couldn’t move. The pain in her shoulder was growing stronger, the fangs of some wild beast digging into her flesh.

She moaned softly.

“Chauncey! Oh my God!”

She imagined his voice. She began to tremble. I’m dying, she thought.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. She saw the shadow of a man bending over her, heard his agonized voice.

“Oh God, love.”

She blinked, trying desperately to focus on his face. “Del?”

“Yes, Chauncey. You’re safe now, love. I’m here.”

“How can you be here?” she asked, puzzled
that the apparition was answering her. “I’m dying. I want you to be here, but you can’t be.”

“I am, sweetheart. Hang on.”

Delaney felt as though his guts had been ripped out. He swallowed convulsively as he stared down at her blood-soaked shirt. Carefully he pulled the string loose and eased the material from her shoulder. She’d been shot. He lifted her slightly and breathed a sigh of relief. The bullet had torn its way through her shoulder and out her back. High on her shoulder, through the fleshy part.

“Sweetheart,” he said firmly, drawing her dazed eyes to his face, “there’s an abandoned miner’s shack just a few minutes away. I’m going to lift you now.”

“What happened to your head?” she asked, seeing a white bandage wrapped around his forehead.

“Nothing important, love. Can you put your arms around my neck?”

She tried but didn’t have the strength.

‘Shush, it’s all right.” He lifted her into his arms and rose. She had to live, she had to! He’d searched and searched. And he’d found her, just when he’d almost accepted the fact that she was dead.

As he shifted her weight, a searing pain tore through her and she cried out. He felt her go limp and froze in fear. No, she was still alive. He held her close against him and grabbed her mare’s reins. He began the trek to the river. He could feel the clammy dampness of her clothes. She must have ridden throughout the rainstorm. He bent his head down, listening. Was there congestion in her lungs? Was her breathing labored?

There was no doctor in Grass Valley, the last one having died from pneumonia while panning for gold in the Yuba. There was no one to help her but him.

His own breathing was labored by the time he reached the shack. He kicked the door open and carried her inside the one-room structure. It had one table, one rickety chair, and a fireplace. Nothing else. He laid her on the floor, then brought in the bedrolls.

As carefully as he could, he stripped off her damp clothes and wrapped her in a wool blanket on a bedroll. He spread the skirt and blouse on the floor to dry, wondering as he did so where she’d gotten them. And she’d worn nothing else. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about that.

“Please stay unconscious just a bit longer,” he whispered to her. Quickly he filled a pan of water from the river and returned to the shack. He built a fire and heated the water. He thought frantically about what to do about the wound. Whiskey. He had just a bit left.

He gently bathed the blood from her shoulder and breast. The bullet wound was clean and, as he’d thought, through the fleshy part of her shoulder. He poured whiskey on the wound and bandaged her tightly with strips torn from his only clean shirt.

He sat back on his haunches and stared down at her pale face. She was alive; she was his; and he would never let her go. He thought of the long days and nights alone. He shook the thoughts from his mind. There was much to do if they were to survive.

He gently eased her next to the fire, covered
her with the rest of the blankets, and rose. He drew a deep breath. One thing at a time, he told himself. He had to find food. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but he had no choice. He picked up his rifle and left the shack.

Chauncey awoke to the smell of roasting meat. She felt her mouth water. Her thoughts were vague, disoriented, and for several moments she didn’t know where she was. She bolted up, crying out, “Del!”

“I’m here, Chauncey,” he said, kneeling beside her. “Lie down, sweetheart. You must rest.”

“You’re really here with me. I thought I’d dreamed it.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

“I’m like a bad penny,” he said. “I’ll always keep turning up.”

She gasped at the pain in her shoulder and turned her head slightly away from him.

“I know you hurt, love. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry.”

“If I hurt, I know I’m alive,” she whispered. “How did you find me?”

“That, love, is a very long story. The rabbit is nearly cooked. Let’s eat first. All right?”

She nodded weakly. “There’s so much to tell you.”

“I know. First things first.”

He cut the meat in small pieces and fed her slowly. She ate everything. He realized that she was thinner. Her high cheekbones were shadowed, and for a moment he pictured her naked body in his mind. Much thinner, and so pale.

“I’m not pregnant,” she said.

He stared at her, not knowing what to say. Suddenly she gasped, her face contorting in pain.

“Del,” she cried softly. He grasped her hand and felt her fingernails dig into his flesh.

“Take shallow breaths and breathe slowly,” he said. “I’m going to tell you about the last five days. Listen to me talk. Concentrate on what I say, not the pain. Do you understand me?”

She swallowed, and kept her eyes on his face. He was bearded, and there were lines of fatigue around his eyes. The bandage around his head made him look like a bandit.

“It was near dawn, remember?” she heard him say, his voice pitched low and soothing. “I heard movement in the woods and went to see what it was. There were several Indians. One of them shot me in the head. Luckily the bullet just grazed me, but I was unconscious for a time. When I came to, you were gone.”

His hand tightened around hers. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. Unfortunately, the wound in my head kept me lying about for nearly that entire day. When I got my wits back, I knew the odds were that I couldn’t track you. I went to Grass Valley and organized search parties. At least ten men have been searching for you the past four days. I came back to where we had camped and searched from there.

“I’ve been scouring the country for two days now, in first one direction from our camp, and then another. I thought I’d dreamed the sound of your voice when I heard you scream my name.”

Her grip on his hand tightened.

“Chauncey, try to listen to me. Can you understand me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry to be such a coward.”

“You’re anything but a coward, sweetheart. No, don’t try to speak again. Breathe slowly. That’s right.

“Now, let me tell you something. I’ve been a thick-headed ass. You were right when you told me I would die of perversity if I didn’t make up my mind what I wanted. What I want, Chauncey, is you. I want us to begin again. No more secrets, no shadows between us. I’ve had nothing but time to think during the past days, to think and worry and hate myself for all the vile things I said to you in my anger.”

He grew silent for a moment, gazing into the crackling fire.

“I love you, you know.”

His eyes fell to her face. She was asleep. Gently he traced a fingertip over her pale lips, her smooth jaw, her delicate ear. He picked up the thick braid of hair and realized it was still damp. He unbraided it and spread her hair about her head. He cursed softly when he laid his palm on her forehead. The fever was beginning.

He held her tightly against the length of his body, stroking his hands up and down her back, and still she shivered convulsively. The small cabin was terribly hot, and he felt beads of sweat on his forehead and chest. She was burrowing against him, trying to get inside of him, he thought. God, if only he could give her his strength! But he couldn’t. There was nothing he could do save try to keep her warm. He felt her lips move against his throat and heard her speaking, slurred sounds that he couldn’t understand.

“Chatca,” she whispered suddenly, quite clearly. “I won’t let him touch me! I’ll die before I let him touch me. I’m bleeding!”

She began to laugh, a raspy, pitiful sound that made gooseflesh rise on his body.

“I’m bleeding and he won’t touch me! God, please help me!”

“It’s all right, Chauncey. He won’t touch you, I promise.”

Had the Indian raped her? What did she mean by bleeding? He suddenly remembered her whispering to him that she wasn’t pregnant. Had she begun her monthly flow? Had that saved her?

She was sobbing softly, and he felt her salty tears against his shoulder. He began to talk, softly and slowly, of anything to keep her mind from her ordeal.

“Did I ever tell you about Mr. Olney of Coyoteville? The miners elected him justice of the peace under the rules of our new constitution. Do you know, he died just last year and left all his money, some six thousand dollars, to the boys, to have a jolly good time. They did, you know. And there was Danny Slengh, who sold his claim for ten thousand dollars. It was over in the Gold Run and Deer Creek area. Then he came back furious because another miner sold a claim that was about an eighth the size of Danny’s for four thousand dollars. The other miners laughed at him, and he finally left, ten thousand dollars richer, but still feeling like he’d been robbed.”

Was she breathing more easily? He couldn’t be certain. He continued stroking her shivering body. “When you’re well again, I’ll take you to Red
Dog, Rough and Ready, and Humbug. Yes, I swear they’re really names of towns near here.

“Did I tell you about Sam Brannan? Not for old Sam to stand thigh-deep in freezing water panning for gold! No, he was far too smart to ruin his health doing that. He bought gold pans for around twenty cents and sold them for sixteen dollars apiece to the miners!”

She grew quiet in his arms and he stopped talking and pressed his cheek against her forehead. She was cooler, he was certain of it. She began to mumble words again, and the name Cricket came out. Cricket, he thought. He must not be hearing her aright. She was growing more agitated, and he began speaking again, calmly and slowly.

“When I first arrived in San Francisco, it was the most ramshackle, flimsy, higgledy-piggledy, haphazard collections of shacks you’ve ever seen. Big ones, little ones, ugly—and all inflammable. We had six fires in eighteen months. I, personally, lost my first home and a warehouse. But it really didn’t matter. We all rebuilt. So many changes I’ve witnessed in only four years, love. There was litterally nothing in forty-nine, and now we have banks, waterworks, the beginnings of a lighting system, hotels, theaters, churches, schools . . .” He stopped, his mind a blank for a moment. Good God, what else did San Francisco have? He really didn’t give a good goddamn. Was she quieter than before? Was his voice, pitched soothing and low, calming her?

“Did you know that men could simply pick gold nuggets up from the ground? I remember the story of old Simon Luther. He was just
walking along one day, not too far from here, and chanced to kick a stone out of his path. The kick had a surprising recoil. He picked it up and found that it was pure gold. The record for one nugget is nearly one hundred and forty-one pounds. Then there was John McGlynn. He was a teamster from New York and had brought his wagon with him. He came to search for gold like the rest of us, but he promptly decided that wasn’t for him. Things had to be hauled, and there was no one to haul them. His was the only wagon in town. Do you know, love, that very soon he had an entire fleet of wagons? He even had an out-of-work lawyer driving one of his wagons. The story goes that a judge and friend of McGlynn’s approved of this, saying that ‘the whole business of a lawyer is to know how to manage mules and asses so as to make them pay.’ ”